We pushed into the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, perhaps two hundred folks. The service had been earlier, family only. Harry and I studied the crowd from the corners. Lincoln Haley stood across the room, black-suited, his face somber. He saw us and headed our way.
“Gentlemen, thanks for coming.”
“It’s actually part of the job, Mr. Haley. But from what we’ve learned about Ms. Franklin, it’s what we’d want to do anyway.”
We stood silently for several moments, sharing the uneasiness of grief. A voice came from behind as a male shape moved past my shoulder.
“Mr. Haley? You’re Lincoln Haley, sir? I recognized you from your photo on WTSJ’s Web site. I’m sorry for the loss. It must be a tremendous blow to everyone at the station.”
I turned to see a guy a bit under my height, paunchy, slope-shouldered. He was dressed in dark pants and a dark sport coat. His short hair was the sort of subdued red favored by folks who want to be edgy, but don’t have the type of job permitting blue or green. A silver ring protruded from his eyebrow and there was a soft color to his flesh that was probably makeup. He spoke with a slight lisp.
Haley said, “Thank you, sir. Are you a friend of Taneesha?”
“No, I’m sorry to say. I’m more a friend to WTSJ, my favorite station. I’ve been listening for years. I remember back when Ms. Franklin started, the midnight-to-six slot. I always tuned in and listened. I wasn’t born until 1981, but I always loved the funk and Motown of the sixties and seventies. Otis, Sly, Mahalia, Aretha, James Brown…”
I tuned the conversation out, scanned the crowd while trying to appear nonchalant. I was looking for wild eyes and an aura of menace. Sometimes the crazies walked right into your pocket.
“She had a great voice,” the fan was saying to Haley. “It’s a terrible loss. I hope someone pays dearly for what they did.”
Haley said, “You heard her in the middle of the night? That puts you in a select audience of a few hundred. You still listen, Mr…?”
“Lucasian. Jim Lucasian.”
The two shook hands. Lucasian turned to me. “Are you a friend or another devoted listener?”
Haley said, “Detective Ryder is with the MPD. He and his partner are here in a surveillance role.”
I winced. “Uh, Linc?” I said.
Haley’s turn to wince. “Oh, sorry.”
Lucasian held up his hand as if making a pledge. “Your secret’s safe with me, detective. I hope you nail the SOB.” He sauntered off toward the exit.
I excused myself and wandered to a doorway. I turned the corner as Dani was entering the room. We nearly walked into one another. She stood in the threshold. My breath went shallow. Her fingertips touched my arm.
“Please, Carson, can we talk about-”
“There’s nothing to say,” I croaked.
“I just want to explain.”
“Did you lie about going to bed with Kincannon?” I said, appearing more interested in a nearby lamp than Dani.
“No. But I need you to know that it wasn’t-”
I said, “No is all I needed to hear. We’ve got nothing more to talk about, Ms. Danbury. You want to talk to somebody, talk to Buckie-boy.”
Her fingers remained on my arm. I shook them loose and turned away. A few minutes later I saw her leave.
Lucas slipped through the tight crowd and out the door. Time to head back to his insecurities firm. Get a nap, surveil the building across the way. He was crossing the funeral parlor lawn when a voice whispered at his shoulder and a hard object rammed his side.
“It’s a gun, Lucas. Don’t do anything but walk, just like you’re doing.”
“Hello, Crandell,” Lucas said, stopping, keeping his voice steady. “My, but we’re stealthy as ever.”
“Keep walking, Lucas.”
He didn’t move. The other man’s hand flashed out, grabbed Lucas’s hand. Pain shot up Lucas’s arm.
“Keep moving, Luke, and there’s no pain. Stop and they break.”
Lucas moved as slowly as possible, but keeping one step ahead of disjointed fingers. The man beside him was six feet tall, dressed in a sculptured gray suit. His physique was boxy and muscular, bowed legs imparting a simian quality. The eyes were small obsidian dots, like button eyes in a doll. Like always, Crandell’s hair was perfect: waves of curly blond hair flowing from his temples.
Lucas affected the singsong voice of the old movie actor Peter Lorre. “You saw through my disguise, didn’t you, Crandell? I’d forgotten how good you were. My height, right? You were looking at everyone six-one, checking closer? You’re amazing, Crandell.”
“You’re a funny guy. But a lot of people aren’t laughing, Lucas. They’re terrified that you’re out and doing God knows what. They’ll be glad to see you and me together again.”
Lucas switched to his normal voice, soft and modulated. “Big payday for you, right?”
“I always have a big payday when we meet, Lukey-boy.”
“Let’s see, Crandell, the last time you and I got together it was four years ago, beneath a microwave tower in a field.” Lucas winked.
“You’re a sick boy, Lucas. Delusional. Got anger problems, problems with women. You need help.”
Lucas looked away. Took a deep breath.
“I’m not going back. You’ll have to shoot me here. You’re a great fixer, Crandell, but how will you fix shooting me in a parking lot?”
“You’ll be fine, Lucas. You just have to…resume your normal routine.”
Lucas heard the roar of an engine, and a dark boxy car jumped from the line of cars and pulled in front of him, braking hard. The door swung open. Lucas bent, smiled, looked at the driver.
“Are you in law enforcement, sir? Crandell likes to employ from its ranks.”
Crandell said, “Get in or I’ll put you in, Luke. It’ll hurt for days.”
Lucas shot a last look at freedom. Or at life. No one near. Wait. Over there, a hundred feet away…walking down a line of parked cars like a man deep in thought.
That cop. Detective. What the hell was his name?
CHAPTER 22
I stepped outside to check the lot, happily free of the parlor. I find contemporary funerals stunted and artificial, stage-managed by businesspeople hired to mute death’s impact. Quiet reservation is the protocol. We lose our words in whispers and walk softly on silencing carpets. If we avoid dissolving into weeping and wailing and honest emotion, we are lauded for holding up well.
When I die, I don’t want people holding up well, I want folks shivering and shaking and dropping to the ground like an old-time revival meeting. I want floor-rolling, tongue-speaking, moon-ranting. I want poetry spoken, songs sung, hands clapped. I want people who never met me to hold the hands of those who did.
I want truths told, balanced by beautiful lies.
“Detective Ryder!”
I turned to see the red-haired fan of funk who’d been talking with Haley, waving my direction. He stood beside another man, whose square build and tight-curled blond hair seemed oddly familiar. Angled to the curb behind them was a dark sedan, Buick maybe. I turned and walked that way, hands in my pockets. There was a bright smile on Funk Fan’s face, but the other man’s face looked somewhere between fight and flight. When I was a half dozen steps distant, Funky sashayed sideways.
I said, “Whatcha need, bud?”
The driver of the vehicle laid on the horn, a piercing blast. I grimaced. Funky laughed and backpedaled faster. I looked into the face of the curly-haired man and immediately knew him from somewhere. He recognized me at the same split-second. I saw motion at his waist, the grip of an automatic in his left hand, the hand beneath his jacket. The gun had a pig snout, a suppressor. The hand began to move. The gun emerged.
He’s going to shoot you! my mind screamed as the gun arced upward. My weapon was shoulder-holstered under my left arm. Useless. I had one motion: Go for his legs. I dove, hands outstretched, saw legs scrabbling away as I rolled, grabbing at air, at nothing. A door slammed, tires screeched. The stink of burned rubber filled the air. No shot was fired.